When I’m confident all my students are settled, I return to my computer. I log into the Victory Hills record system first, writing down the names of schools she’s attended. It appears she was in the same elementary school in Kentucky until sixth grade. That was the first notable move, after which she was homeschooled for a year. She attended a middle school in Kentucky, then entered her freshman year of high school in Virginia. She attended a second Virginia high school before enrolling at Victory Hills.
I reflect upon the upheaval involved with each relocation. It’s a lot of moving for a child to experience; Brian and I always stayed in the same school district. Sure, some of the moves might be attributed to Ms. Peterson’s instability, but I suspect Zoey’s behavior might have contributed. As Pam previously confirmed, none of the schools were located in Florida. Lying twerp.
Now I have a neat list with phone numbers and contact names. I set it to the side, intending to make the calls at the beginning of my planning period. Before the bell rings, I walk around to each student and tell them to place their finished essay in my hand. When Zoey hands me her paper, I notice a small scratch under her left eye. I smile.
I start dialing Zoey’s former high schools first. I ask to speak with counselors, as they are typically the ones dealing with both transfers and behavioral issues.
“I’m Della Mayfair from Victory Hills High School,” I say when the receptionist answers. “Could you connect me to the guidance department?”
“There is no one in guidance today,” she replies.
“Maybe you can help me,” I say. “I’m trying to track down information about a student who recently transferred here.”
“Guidance has access to all the records,” she says. “You’ll have to speak with them.”
“When would be the best time for me to call back?” I ask. Most secondary schools in the southeast are gearing up for graduation ceremonies. I should have known it would be a hectic time.
“I can pass along a message,” she says, already bored.
I provide my name and cell phone number. I also leave Zoey’s name, explaining I’m trying to help her with college admissions essays. It’s not like I can say I’m calling to dig up dirt.
Frustrated by the slow start, I call the other high school on the list. That counselor doesn’t provide much information. She describes Zoey as a doll. Her Kentucky middle school counselor has a similar take. Zoey was a star student there, just like she is at Victory Hills.
Finally, I call the first school she attended. Boone County Elementary School. It’s the place where she spent the longest stretch of time before being homeschooled. A secretary answers the phone. I give her my line about college admissions essays and ask to speak with the school counselor. Unfortunately, he’s unavailable.
“Sorry,” says the woman on the phone. “He’s doing the whole college tour mess with his daughter. She’s the last of the lot to go, so he took the day to visit campuses with her.”
“That’s nice,” I reply, thinking the secretary’s talkative nature might work in my favor. “Are you familiar with the students at school?”
“About have them all memorized by heart. I’ve been here almost thirty years,” she says, as I’d suspected given her shaky tenor.
“Well, do you think I could ask you some questions about this particular student?” I ask. “See, she only enrolled with us a few weeks ago. I’m trying to gain a more comprehensive understanding of her background.”
“I’ll help if I can. If she’s looking at colleges, it’s been several years since we’ve had her, but we’re a small school. Makes it easy for kids to leave an impression. Give me a name,” she says.
“Zoey Peterson.”
“Peterson,” she repeats. “What years did you say she was here again?”
“She left in 2015. She was in sixth grade.”
“Let me think,” she says. I imagine her behind the reception desk, gladly accepting the opportunity to make the afternoon round up faster with a friendly telephone chat.
“She was an only child. Dark hair. She has a single mother.”
“Zoey, you say,” she starts, added excitement in her voice. “Zoey Peterson.”
“Yes.”
“Scrawny little thing?”
“Still is, so I’m assuming.”
“Yes. I do remember her,” she says, but her voice is no longer peppy. “You say this is for a college application?”
“Yes.”
“God bless her for making it this far,” she says under her breath, but loud enough for me to hear. “I can’t tell you much about that one. At least nothing you’d want in a college admissions essay.”
“Well, is there anything you can tell me about her? Anything at all?” I ask, hoping I’m not pushing my limits.
“You’re able to see she didn’t choose to leave school, right?” she asks, dryly. “She was told to go.”
I don’t have detailed access to her records, which is the main reason I’m calling counselors to begin with. Nothing in her file says she was asked to leave.
“Do you remember why? It’s not something I need to include in the essay,” I assure her. “It would be off record.”
“I remember her because in thirty years I’ve not seen another student do what she did,” she says, her voice low. “We established the rule about classroom pets because of her.”
“Classroom pets?”
“Yeah. It was a big mess between the school and the mother, if I remember. Probably why she doesn’t have much information to give you. She was a piece of work.”
“What did she do?” I ask, trying to hide my desperation for an answer.
“She killed the classroom pet. Brought a weapon from home and stabbed the poor thing.”
“My goodness.” This is what I need. Proof Zoey is disturbed. I’m filled with a bizarre mix of disgust and excitement. “Did she do it in front of the students?”
“No. Thank the Lord. We only caught her because we’d recently installed cameras outside along the building. If I remember correctly, she was waiting to be picked up
